


The Roots Go Deep

by DayStar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, Lydia and Allison are at a club and discover that something's amiss. Not wanting to go screaming to the werewolves for help, they decide to handle it using their own 'unique' skills. Derek is not impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roots Go Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just-breathe-and-hope](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=just-breathe-and-hope).



> Written for this prompt: Could I request Sterek, where Stiles and the girls are at a club and discover a monster in the crowd. Of course they decide to handle it alone, using flirting or seduction ( the general idea) when the guys walk in. They aren't too happy with that. Fluff~
> 
> First time I've written for a prompt, and I'm hoping I didn't fall flat on my face. Comments or harsh critique very much appreciated, I'm not sure how this one went.

_If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?  
    If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?_

The music pulses in his ears, just a few notes short of overwhelming, and Stiles sips at his beer and wonders why anyone would actually pay money for anything so gross tasting. Danny swore that the fake IDs would work, and he was right, but with the thick flavour of Coors Light on his tongue, Stiles can't exactly be very thankful. Two shots of something - he isn't entirely sure what he ordered - was good, but the beer isn't. With a slight sigh, he shoves his almost full cup onto the nearest table and straightens on his stool, watching the crowd of mostly teens dancing in the strobe lights.

Allison and Lydia are standouts. Both in dresses - one dark blue, the other a pale pink - they're surrounded by guys, and the two of them have been at the club for all of ten minutes. And then there's Stiles. He thinks, maybe, if he got on the floor, he might be able to attract some attention, but that would only be if he stands still. If he actually tries to dance...

Snatching the beer, Stiles takes a big gulp and makes a face. "If I tried to dance," he mutters to himself, "I'd get a lot of attention. And it would be negative. Very, very negative."

He still wants to try though. Anything would be better than just sitting here, waiting for Derek, Scott and Isaac to show. In fact, the slender teen is about to get up when he notes that Lydia is approaching, dragging Allison behind her. One of the guys who was dancing with them sort of trails after them; at least, he does until Lydia turns around and says something sharp enough to make him blush and retreat. _Wish I could have heard that,_ Stiles muses. It's always a happy day when Lydia is being snarky to someone who isn't him.

His smugness at the thought is somewhat drenched when the girls are standing in front of him; Allison is biting her lip and Lydia plays absently with the pearl necklace around her neck, occasionally casting a hurried glance over her shoulder. He frowns.

"What?" Stiles asks, leaning forward. "What's wrong? A guy wasn't bugging you or anything, right? Because I swear I'll -"

" _No,_ Stiles." Lydia's voice is pitched high with annoyance, and he winces slightly. Clearly, it's not going to be a happy day. "And you know," the strawberry blonde continues sardonically, "even if it was, do you really think you could handle it better than _me?_ I dated a jock who transformed into a lizard monster, remember? You wouldn't need to rescue me, or Allison for that matter, and -"

"Okay." Allison's interjection is steady, and it's at that moment that Stiles realizes Lydia is a little tipsy. Not staggering drunk or anything, but she's got a glass of something in her hand, and her hair is messed - just a little bit - more than she usually allows it. Clearly, she's been having fun.

Not so much anymore, though. Distracted briefly by her aggravation, Lydia quickly gets back to the topic at hand. Tossing her head and flicking her hair back, she makes an obvious effort and refocuses. "We noticed something," she says loudly, without preamble. "There's this girl - over there - who's a bit... different." She points in a general direction, but honestly, this floor of the club is crowded enough that he can't see anything through the throng of people.

Craning his neck and sitting up straighter, he's still trying to catch sight of this "different" girl when Allison catches his wrist and piercingly asks, "Did you hear me?"

The noise is pushing against his eardrums and Stiles shrugs, shaking his head in the negative. This place is definitely not ideal for a serious conversation.

"I said, we think you should go talk to her."

"Me?" Stiles is genuinely taken aback. "Why me? Why do I have to talk to the weird ones?"

Lydia rolls her eyes, and Allison's lips curve into a gently mocking arc. "Because," the latter says, "she's a girl. Her being different has nothing to do with it. She's just... we're curious, that's all."

"Aaand," Lydia chirps, smiling brilliantly, "we all know how good you are at asking questions and looking inquisitive."

He looks around again and then spots her momentarily; or at least, he thinks it must be her. She's wearing one of those animal hats, the ones with ears that hang down as flaps. That's pretty weird to wear at a club. Even weirder, she's surrounded by guys. Before he can get a good look, she slips out of view again.

"I'm not really interested in the whole hat thing..." he says dubiously, but the girls both protest.

It takes a few more sentences in a similar vein, flattery mixed in with light logic, but eventually Stiles is persuaded off of his stool. He pulls at his navy blue t-shirt for a moment and then glances back. The girls make shooing motions. His eyes narrow, and he turns away, pushing - or at least, trying to push - a path through the crush of bodies back to the bar. This late, around twelve, the club is absolutely packed, mostly with teens, and the going is pretty slow.

"I'm not really sure this isn't some attempt to set me up," Stiles mutters to himself, casting an evil eye backwards. Lydia and Allison have tried it before, but none of the girls he's been conned or forced into meeting have ever been anything more than 'nice'. Nice being a polite synonym for boring. After hanging around with werewolves - one in particular - it's hard to view anyone as anything else.

Reaching the bar, he gets the barkeeper's attention with some enthusiastic waving. The guy looks skeptically at the fake ID Stiles brandishes, shrugs in a 'not my problem' way and gets him a bottle cap shot. As before, the slender teen nearly chokes on it, but after a few seconds of gasping, he feels the burn travel from his throat to his stomach and change into something more pleasant. _Nothing like some good old fashioned liquid courage._ His dad would murder him if he knew. Scott probably wouldn't be too impressed, either.

Speaking of which... Still glancing around, trying to spot the "different" girl again, Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket. There's no message from Scott, and Stiles has impatiently began to type, ' _Dude, u coming soon?'_ when a hand catches his own, stopping him. Startled, he jerks his head up.

It's the girl. Closer up, he sees that the furry hat on her head is in the shape of a brown bunny; the ears of it fall to her chin and hide most of her hair. And suddenly, almost painfully, Stiles understands why Allison and Lydia called her different. She isn't different because of the hat. She's different because, _despite_ the hat, she still looks... amazing. Like a model. And not a cute model, either. Or maybe like a goddess. The hair that he can see is dark, and her eyes are a light green that he could compare to the freshest of apples, the most verdant of grass, the...

"Hello." Her voice is equally wonderful - you could almost call it _enchanting_ \- and Stiles blinks stupidly, realizes his mouth is open, and hastily shuts it. The girl continues. "My name is Kelsie. I was dancing with some other guys, and I noticed you all alone." Though Stiles is in no condition to fully notice it, Kelsie doesn't raise her voice, and yet her words travel through the music as easily as a hand parting water.

She leans forward, never removing her hand. "Did you come here by yourself?"

Looking hazily at her face, Stiles realizes that something is bothering him, but through the fog in his mind he can't seem to put a finger on what it is. He answers slowly, each word stretched out like taffy. "I... yes. By myself. Just me and... just me."

Her genuine smile is radiant. " _Such_ a shame," Kelsie practically purrs. "No one should ever be _alone._ " Kelsie leans forward even further, hand travelling up Stiles' shoulder, and the haze thickens, but Stiles abruptly realizes what is bothering him so much.

The girl's eyes are glowing. It hadn't alarmed him before now because he's so used to seeing illuminated irises, and because his head is so clouded. But just when she says 'alone' her eyes flare, become brighter and change shade. And the feeling of wrongness grows in Stiles' gut and, through whatever is slowing his thoughts, he understands. Kelsie's eyes are a cold, vivid emerald green. He doesn't love that colour. He isn't looking for it. With turbulent desire dimming his rational thoughts, Stiles had been expecting red.

Like a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on his head, the truth shocks Stiles into breaking free from whatever witchy spell was being cast on him. Judgment completely his own, he looks back at Kelsie. She's beautiful, yes, but... _The freshest of apples? Is that really the best I could do?_

Clearly this chick is something else, and before she can renew the spell or enchantment or whatever the hell it is, Stiles flees. Smiling in what he fervently hopes is a naive, non-offensive and totally blasé way, he apologizes, "You know, I think I drank too much. First time and all. I'll be back in a second, if you'd be cool to just hang out. Or dance! Yeah, you should totally go dance! I'm just gonna -" he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, "go."

Her face draws down into lines of taken aback perplexity, and he doesn't wait to see if she gets angry or something. With the near maniacal smile still plastered over his face, he turns and hurries away, stumbling through the crowd with even less grace than is usual. He realizes that the mind haze might have gone, but the alcohol haze isn't shrugged off so easily by the thought of pretty eyes. Really pretty eyes. Well... _Not pretty, exactly,_ he decides haphazardly. _More like intense. Murderous, maybe._ And even when the color isn't red, is instead drained out and hard to define, it still contains an amazing passion, and Stiles can't help but wonder, chaotically, how he could have ever thought that that tone of green was beautiful.

He's getting so off topic. It's probably a good thing that Allison and Lydia snag him the second he's out of Kelsie's sight. Forcing himself to focus and sitting down at their table, Stiles immediately blurts out, "You were right. She's weird. Definitely one of our cups of tea, y'know?" He grins at the joke. "She does - something - and makes you, like, zone out. And kinda, umm, want her I guess." Awkward, that. "I think she's a witch. Or something. But definitely _evil._ "

Allison raises one skeptical eyebrow. "Umm... Stiles? How much have you had to drink?"

Stiles chokes indignantly. "Wha...? What? I'm not drunk!" After a momentary pause, he shrugged. "Well, I'm kinda drunk. But that's not the point! She's definitely evil! She tried to put a spell on me!" Even in his intoxicated state, the teen can see how ridiculous that sounds. But seriously, how much better is 'My best friend can turn into a furry monster who runs around on all fours and can do stuff that would put Olympic athletes to shame'?

At least they seem to grudgingly believe him. "Okay," Lydia says slowly. "I'm not really sold on the 'evil' part, but we definitely need to talk to her. And if she _is_ casting spells on guys, besides the whole evil thing, she's taking away some of my distractions!" Her lips are set in a pout, and he grimaces. And he thought he was the one getting off topic.

"Lydia is right," Allison agrees. "About the talking thing, I mean."

Lydia beams. "Great! We should text the guys, tell them to hurry their furry butts over here, and then we can talk to Madame Lapin Faux Pas."

"Umm... _no_!?" His outraged yelp is accompanied by Allison's firm rejection. Lydia stops, phone in hand, her eyebrows raised, and demands, "What?"

"We can handle this ourselves, Lydia," Allison says. "Look, I brought some defense stuff." Her eyes drift to her shoes, and Stiles suspects a knife or taser or something is concealed there. "We don't need the guys."

Stiles is in complete agreement, if only because he wants to see the look on Derek's face when they announce they've dealt with a threat without him. "Good, majority rules," he announces smugly, and then hastily lowers his gaze when Lydia glares at him. Speaking to his worn shoes, the teen continues. "So, how are we going to do this? I think we'll need to get her alone somehow; don't want there to be a bunch of people around. I'm not really sure how to go about it though..."

He's greeted by silence. Running a hand through his hair, Stiles waits for a moment and then looks up, brow furrowed. Both of the girls are staring at him, the speculative looks in their eyes making him swallow nervously.

"Ah... Allison? Lydia? Any ideas?"

Pressing her hands together, Lydia says absently, "I think it'd work."

Allison nods. "Yeah, it might. She probably thinks he just managed to walk away or something. But could _he_ actually do it?"

Lydia looks him up and down, considering, before she shallowly dips her head. "I think so. She approached him, so there's something there. All he needs to do is not mess it up."

There's another pause as Stiles watches them, waiting for an explanation. Lydia smiles sweetly. "Well Stiles, what are you waiting for? Go on, shoo." And she makes the motion with her hand, painted nails flashing in the strobe lights.

He's starting to wonder if he should be concerned. Maybe his drink was spiked or something? Is this a hallucinogenic induced nightmare? He thinks he knows what they're asking of him - at least vaguely - but he's so far from comfortable with the idea that his fingers have automatically latched to the nearest anchor, in this case the stool he's sitting on.

"You know what? No," Stiles hisses, flicking a frantic glance around the club to make sure Kelsie isn't anywhere nearby. "I'm not going anywhere near that chick again. Did you forget what I said? She put a spell on me! I barely escaped with my life!"

In a voice that's far too reasonable, Allison gently asks, "Did she actually try to do anything to you? You know, something dangerous? Like try to kill you?"

"Well - I - no, but - she was going to!" And it's weird, but Stiles is pretty certain of that. He isn't just being dramatic. There was something sinister about her bunny hat, with its bunny ears and little bunny face...

Now the reasonableness is just getting patronizing. "Stiles, we don't even know if she meant to do the spell thing. And if she did, maybe she's just having a good time. It's not like she tried to lure you away or anything. And it doesn't look like she's trying to harm any of the other guys hanging around her."

He's really, really not feeling good about this. Maybe his tenacious worry is alcohol fueled, but that doesn't reassure him at all. Heatedly, Stiles protests, "And what if she's just having fun before she _murders everyone?_ What if their attention is just the appetizer before the main course of screaming and severed limbs? Huh? What then?" Another thought occurs to him. "Besides, where the hell am I supposed to take her? The upstairs is private only, it's closed every other day anyways, going into the alleyway would just be suspicious..."

Lydia tilts her head a little at that. "The upstairs is private, but not to me." It's her turn to be smug, though she struggles to hide it with maidenly innocence. "I know the guy who works security. He'll let us up if I ask. And there! Problem solved!"

"No, not completely! What about that whole ' _she can turn me into a mindless zombie'_ problem?"

Allison frowns. "Oh, yeah. Well, you snapped out of that before."

Lydia mirrors her. "Oh, yeah. How did you do that, by the way?"

Stopped in his tracks, Stiles blusters, trying to think of a way to say it without lying. "I noticed her eyes were weird. They, umm, glowed, and I didn't really expect it. So, I guess, umm, it made me realize something was weird." He's blushing furiously, but hopefully in the dim light of the club it won't be too obvious.

If they do notice - and he has a sinking feeling they do - they both brush past it. Allison smiles encouraging. "Well, there you go. Now that you know what she is, you'll be immune to it. Come on, we need you for this."

Backed into a figurative corner, Stiles exhales explosively. "Alright!" he all but yells. "Fine! But I swear to God, if she kills me while I'm trying to seduce her, I'm haunting you guys forever."

Jumping off the stool and staggering as he hits the ground, he waves off their supporting hands, straightens his shirt and then walks off, craning his neck to find Kelsie again. He unconsciously fiddles with the belt loops on his jeans and tries to think of how he's supposed to get her to come with him without making her suspicious. Of course, he actually needs to find her first, and that could be a problem. What if she already left?

Not a problem. As before, Kelsie finds him first. She appears with a smile and a wave, and Stiles knows with a sinking feeling that Allison was definitely wrong. She's even more beautiful than last time - or maybe he's just forgotten the gut wrenching impact of her enchantment - and he has to focus furiously on red eyes, colorless eyes, _Derek's eyes_ to avoid falling for her forest green gaze. And at the same time, he can't show that it isn't working, either. There's also the 'seduce her upstairs' part of the plan that's going to be interesting to put in action.

Twitching up a smile, Stiles tries to sound flirtatious. "Hey," he says loudly, over the Marianas Trench blasting in the background. "You know, while the toiler and I were getting acquainted a few minutes ago, I told it that if I had a nickel for every time I saw someone as beautiful as you, I'd have five cents."

Her eyebrows shoot up, but the pleased look that lights up her slender face suggests that boys often say stupid things to her. "That's cute," Kelsie murmurs, and this time he does notice the way her voice is totally unaffected by the music. "Let's dance for a bit." Before he can object or try and suggest going somewhere else, she's swept her arms around him. A scent he can't quite name, heavy and marshy and not unpleasant, rushes over him.  

The contact heightens the desire. Gasping, Stiles pulls away, just a little, and looks into her eyes, reminding himself of the potential dangerous outcome of giving in to the sensation. She's frowning slightly, and, stumbling over the words, he says, "You know, stunning is my favorite colour."

The frown melts away, to be replaced by a warm smile. "That's not a colour," Kelsie points out softly.

Mentally thanking Isaac for persuading him to look up pickup lines, Stiles replies, "Really? Cause it's... kinda the colour of your eyes."

He almost wishes he hadn't said it, her delight is so obvious. Not only does it make him feel almost bad, it increases the fog that's trying to push into his mind, and Stiles knows that he's gotta get her upstairs and away from him if he's to have any hope of continuing to fight. Gulping in more air, he grins shakily and unconsciously licks his dry lips. "Hey, you wanna get away from the crowd?" With an apologetic shrug, the teen adds, "You have to be careful, sticking around with this many people. You might be asked to leave; you're making all the other girls look bad."

His cheeks are lightly flushed, but it's almost a good thing the alcohol and her ensnarement are such a potent combination, because otherwise he'd be dying of embarrassment. As it is, he manages to maneuver her, unresisting and curious, to the foot of the winding metal staircase that leads to the private function room. Obviously, Lydia has gotten to the guy standing with crossed arms in front of it, because as soon as he notices them he steps back and makes a curt gesture.

Unable to resist the temptation to speak, needing a reason to look away from her, Stiles stage whispers, "The guy owes me a favour. Let's just say that he won't be going around pencil sharpeners any time soon." She laughs and he breezes past the murderous glare the security man sends him, climbs the stairs with one arm heavy on her shoulder for support. Each step is a major challenge, and he's far past the ability to recognize just how heavily affected he is. All Stiles is certain of is that he needs to remember eyes. For some reason.

They get to the top, and step into a spacious, elegantly decorated room. It's got a red and black theme - the plush couches, the glass tables, are black, and the walls maroon - and together they stumble to the nearest loveseat. Stiles slips out of her grasp and then collapses on to the cushions, and she remains standing. He can't entirely focus on her face - probably not a bad thing - but her voice carries a note of uncertainty.

"I'm used to guys acting like idiots," Kelsie says slowly, and it's more like she's talking to herself than to him. "That's the point. But I've never actually wanted it to be a specific one before. I wonder what makes you so special?" She leans down, and the movement makes her rabbit hat shift slightly. Some of her dark hair escapes and falls across her neck as she gently touches his cheek.

Again, the touch is like a powerful link, only this time he doesn't feel a stronger pulse from her. Instead, it feels like something is being pulled from him, and though the euphoria is still there, there's pain, too. He groans, moves weakly. It's as if all of his strength has been sucked out, and he can't think about why that should be so alarming. But it really does hurt, as if something vital is being taken from somewhere deep in his chest. Something is dripping on him, and he thinks... her hair might be wet? Another spike of pain drives into his chest and drives away the thought. He cries out, convulsing weakly.

Her voice is a soothing tune. "It's okay," Kelsie breathes. "You're fine. Once we're done here, I have a nice place in the forest picked out. We can go there, and then you'll get to rest."

That really does sound pretty pleasant. The sudden, outraged screech she emits is not. The girl snatches her hand away - the pain stops immediately, though the faintness in his vision doesn't recede - and he can just make out Allison's authoritative command. "Step away from him. Don't move, or I will use this."

Kelsie blows out a deep breath, but doesn't interrupt as Allison continues. "What are you? And what were you just doing to him?"

_Doing to him? Him? Who's him?_ Each thought is a struggle, birthed from stubbornness and an innate curiosity that he can't let go even now, mentally drowning as he is. _What was she doing?_

The response is a far cry from the beautiful, lilting melodies of before. It's a harsh snap, and Stiles would be concerned if he wasn't so out of it. "If you're planning on stabbing me with that stupid thing, you clearly don't know what I am. Amateur."

There's a choked off cry, a muffled thump. It's worrisome enough that Stiles raises himself up on his elbows, finding that his strength is sluggishly returning. Kelsie is standing over Allison's unmoving form, the young hunter's knife held idly in her hand. Her hat has fallen off, lies on the ground nearby, and there's something strange about her jet black hair. If she'd just stay still for a moment, he would be able to tell what it is, but it's just then that Lydia jumps out from behind a tall potted plant, high heel shoe in one hand, and brings it down on the supernatural being's head. Or, more accurately, tries to.

Kelsie twists and snatches the shoe away from Lydia, the scowl on her face just short of terrifying. She draws back her arm, as though about to use the high heel against its trembling owner, and Stiles tenses, forcing his reluctant body to sit up, knowing with gut wrenching terror that he isn't going to be able to intervene in time. But Kelsie pauses, wavers, drops her arm.

Her voice is almost back to pleasant when she exclaims, "Another one! You all feel different! You especially. Why is that?"

Lydia is shaking so hard she looks unsteady, but though it's high pitched, her reply is brave. "Different? How should I know? You said it yourself; we don't even know what you are." She's facing Kelsie head on, shoulders squared, and Stiles can see that she's got her hands clenched at her sides in defiance. His heartbeat skips and stumbles along. _Lydia, Lydia, be careful. Don't do something stupid._  The other girl doesn't seem to notice, and, still as she is, Stiles sees what's so strange about her hair.

It's wet. Not 'I got out of the shower an hour ago' wet. It's actually dripping. And there are... pieces... of something, interwoven between the lustrous strands. If Stiles had to guess, he would say it was seaweed. The very fact that he can guess shows his improvement, and, trying to muffle his groan, the human struggles to his feet, catching himself on the table when it feels like he's about to fall. He's frantically trying to think of something to do.

He needs to do _something._ He's screwed up so badly this time. If he'd just been firm, told them this wasn't a good idea. Hell, if he'd just texted Scott without them knowing, Allison wouldn't be... wouldn't be... _Stop,_ he orders himself harshly. _Think._ Screaming won't help; the music downstairs would just drown it out. Stiles straightens and takes a few steps forward, praying that Kelsie doesn't notice.

Most of her attention is fixed on Lydia. "True enough," she admits softly. "You wouldn't have been so dumb if you knew what I was. Well, what can it hurt?" Kelsie raises her chin proudly, tossing her hair and splattering the floor and Allison with little droplets. "I'm a kelpie. I was here just to find a meal, but then your friend showed up." Her eyes flick to Stiles and he freezes, but she only smirks at him before turning back.

"He attracted me. Same with you. I mean, I can't _eat_ you, obviously - guys only diet for me - but still... something is very interesting about you all. I just can't put my finger on it." By now, Stiles is officially freaking out. Not caring if Kelsie sees him, he reaches for his phone. It isn't there, and his frenzied searching doesn't reveal it in his waistband, other pockets or anywhere on the couch.

"Looking for this?"

Kelsie has dropped the shoe and now twirls Stiles' cell casually between her fingers. "Don't look so surprised," she says coyly. "I always take them away. I don't approve of texting during dates."

Swallowing hard, Stiles answers, "Yeah? Well I don't approve of Kelsie the kelpie. What, did your parents have a bad day at work before they named you?" Lydia's shaking her head, but Stiles knows they have to stall her somehow. The wolves are on their way - probably, hopefully - and Derek's going to be pissed, but he'll still save their asses. And Stiles will be another human too pathetic to defend himself in the werewolf's eyes. And what if... what if Allison is worse than she looks? What if...? What will he tell Scott? _This is all my fault. Damn it! I need to save them._ Unbidden, a picture is nudging into his mind, a crumpled, pale woman with a collection of tubes and quiet smiles, but he can't think of her right now, can't think of another time he failed. He won't this time; he has a plan, right?

The stall strategy seems to be working. Kelsie's jaw tightens. "I don't have parents," the kelpie says serenely, but it's with the kind of restrain that people use when they're a short inch from rage. Tight lipped, she amends, "Well, I've never met them. Not when I was self-aware, anyways. I named myself Kelsie. Kelsie the kelpie. It's amusing to name myself so closely to what I am, and watch the hint sail right over your stupid heads."

"If my username was Alphahale, you wouldn't get it, but you don't hear me calling you hurtful names," Stiles points out.

"I'm also not on a forum, so I don't really _do_ usernames."

_Am I really having this conversation with a supernatural creature that wants to kill me?_ He's trying to keep from panicking, but every once in awhile his varnished brown eyes go to Allison, laying so still on the floor. Her shoulders are moving - she's breathing - but there's a gash on her head that's bleeding, and he knows he can't rely on the werewolves.

"No, you just do lame names." Before she can respond, he hurries on. "Not to change the topic, but I'm morbidly curious. How did you plan on eating me? I'm not seeing any pointy teeth or anything."

And, actually, past the fear that's making his heart race, the guilt clogging his lungs, he _is_ curious. Sopping wet hair, altered eyes and seaweed aside, she looks normal. No fangs or claws or anything. And the longer he can prolong this conversation, the more time he has to think.

That plan falls through the floor. A twisted, sickly sweet smile suddenly graces the kelpie's face, and she drawls, "I'll have to give you a demonstration." And she swings the hand holding the knife straight at Lydia. She screams, Stiles shouts and leaps forward, but too late; the handle hits Lydia in the side of the head and she crumples to the ground. He doesn't have time to see how badly she's hurt before Kelsie is in front of him and reaching for his wrist. He also doesn't have the time to avoid it; she moves too quickly.

The moment her skin meets his, the mental cloud is back in full force. It's worse - far worse - than either other time. Kelsie isn't playing now. Her mouth set, eyes glowing, the kelpie heaves him to the couch as his knees buckle. He can't focus, can hardly see anything, but her words are unaffected as always.

"First, I'm going to suck out most of your energy. That's what hurts so much," she whispers, black hair tickling his face as she leans over him. Even as she says it, the pain begins, a ripping sensation that starts in his chest and makes him moan, too dazed to do more. "Once you're completely out of it, I'm going to haul you downstairs - telling everyone that you just can't make it through the first period - and drive to, as I told you before, a very nice spot in your little woods; it's right near a stream." He cries out, jerking spasmodically as agony surges into his arms and legs. She holds him down with one hand, keeping him firmly pinned.

Her mouth is next to his ear, her hair trailing a wet path against his cheek. "Then, I'm going to get rid of this ridiculous form, eat you and move on. Simple, really. Your friends are going to have quite a bit of explaining to do when they wake up in the next few hours."

"That's true enough." This voice is distorted, indistinct, barely comprehensible. But though he can't see and can't fully comprehend the sentence, Stiles knows, deep down, who it is. And despite the pain, he smiles.

"Derek." He breathes the name like a prayer, and suddenly the weight pinning him to the couch is gone. With it goes the agony, but Kelsie has pushed too hard, taken too much. The blackness swimming at the edge of his vision doesn't leave, and his hearing won't sharpen. Stiles doesn't see the short work Scott, Cora and Isaac make of the kelpie. He doesn't hear the fire alarm, pulled by Scott, screeching its warning and clearing the club. He hardly feels it when Derek lifts him off the couch and carries him to a car.

Floating in a sea of strained quietness, Stiles isn't aware of anything but the muscular warmth of Derek's arms holding him to the Alpha's chest and a heart beating fast and furious. Soon he slips away and loses even that.

\----

He wakes up in a big bed that definitely isn't his own, the light that's meandering through the far window persuading his heavy eyelids to open. Stiles blinks once, twice. With a vague sense of surprise, he notes that he feels good. Really good. And yet for some reason, it feels as though even the light, cool sheets against his skin should be making him cringe. Like remembering being in a really intense fight but having no bruises afterwards.

Sitting up with a grimace - okay, so he doesn't feel like a million dollars - Stiles lets the blanket fall from his bare chest. The movement hurts and he gingerly twists to view his side. A mottled contusion takes up a few inches of space, a repulsive swath across his otherwise pale and unbroken skin. Mouth turning down, he looks away. _Wow. Must have been quite a party._ Joking aside, Stiles remembers the events of - last night? - but he definitely doesn't remember getting that.

He does remember Allison, slumped and bleeding. He can still hear the thump of the dagger against Lydia's temple. _Shit. Shit shit shit. That was my fault._ He's almost afraid to wonder where they are - how they are - now.

Trying to piece it all together, he looks around.

The teen doesn't recognize the room. It's bereft of almost any decorations, and, while the dresser and bed are nice enough, they're remarkably plain. His eyes flit about, trying to figure out where he is, and when they return to the doorway, he nearly has a heart attack and jerks the sheets up to his neck in an automatic gesture. Derek is standing there, sans his usual scowl and leather jacket, wearing a plain grey t-shirt and jeans.

Before Stiles can say anything - like 'why the hell are you creeping on me?' - the Alpha comes forward with steps that are oddly hesitant. When he speaks though, there's everything but reluctance in his tones. "You're looking surprisingly good. How are you feeling?"

"Aw, you care? I'm touched." Which is just the sarcastic truth. Breaking Derek's intense gaze, Stiles starts to prod at himself, dubiously feeling for bruises or scrapes. He's about to declare himself pain free, having deliberately only skimmed his arms and shoulders, when the werewolf's harsh hands prod against his ribs, eliciting a sharp yelp that Stiles quickly turns into a cough.

"Huh." Derek says nothing else, just removes his stiff fingers and stands woodenly by Stiles' bedside.

If looks could kill, there'd be wolfsbane growing through the floor, but unfortunately Stiles' eyes don't have that ability, so he settles with a glare that - definitely - isn't sheepish. At all. Torn between asking what that had been for, how the girls are doing and where he is, eventually the human caves to his desire to avoid in depth conversation and inquires mechanically, "So, who's bed am I stealing?"

"Mine."

The sardonic comment brewing on his tongue dies instantly. "Yours?" He is simultaneously horrified, shocked and - honest only to himself - thrilled. "Why yours?"

"We couldn't explain your condition to your dad, not without you saying you were fine with it. Scott and Isaac are taking care of that kelpie chick with Deaton's help, and Scott's mom is working major hours at the hospital. We couldn't take you anywhere else."

"But the couch? The _floor?_ Dude, you didn't need to give up your bed!"

Derek shifts uncomfortably, sticking his hands into his jeans. "It was just a night, okay? Not that big of a deal."

"Okay..." After a moment, still trying to restrain his curiosity about the Alpha's actions - because God knows Derek would knock his head off if he tried to broach the subject - Stiles attempts to go down a different avenue. "So, how are Lydia and Allison after what the kelpie did?" He hopes the question doesn't sound as desperate as he feels. They're obviously not dead or seriously injured. Derek would have told him right away... right? Unconsciously, his hand travels to his bruised side, and he mutters, "Bitch."

Though Derek's mouth pulls upward a little - clearly he heard the comment - his reply is firm and cool. "Deaton saw you when you were out. He says you have to be a vegetable for a day or so to regain your energy. That means I'm only telling you that everyone is fine, the situation handled."

"What?" There's no feigned earnestness in his protest when he tilt's his head, pleading. "Come on, Derek, you can't just leave me in the dark! What -"

"No."

"But she -"

"No."

"Allison was -"           

"We're not talking about that, okay? Just rest!" Exasperated, the werewolf turns, presenting his back, and goes to stand by the window.

Throwing up his hands, he grumbles, "Fine, fine." Stiles leans back against the pillow, trying to think of something to say that doesn't involve the previous night. Honestly, he's a little surprised, but not unhappy, that Derek isn't ripping into him for the fiasco. They sit in silence for a time, and though it isn't awkward, there's definitely some level of tension in it.

He's about to tentatively broach the subject of breakfast when Derek abruptly whirls around, his blazing eyes set on the bedridden teen. With quick, jagged steps he's at Stiles' side, looming over him, and it's scary but also... not. Because Stiles isn't afraid. He was in one of the worst situations he's ever been in, and Derek came. Saved him. So he meets the Alpha's livid gaze calmly, innocently, and if he does it in part to irritate the werewolf, well, it is _him_ after all.

From between clenched teeth, Derek spits, "How could you be so stupid?"

"I thought you said we weren't talking about it?" Stiles rejoins cheekily.

The Alpha inhales sharply, and the way his nostrils flare sends a light shiver tumbling down Stiles' spine. "I _lied._ You aren't getting off of this one easily, Stiles. Scott said I should just let you forget it, that you'd feel bad about it, but you know what I think? I think that, out of trouble once again, you're just going to brush it off. Well, I'm not going to let you do that!"

Stiles feels his mouth drop open, and  he sits up straighter, arms tight across his chest, pushing into the bruise almost deliberately. "Okay, one, you don't _let_ me do anything." Derek's words repeat in his ears, and he feels himself getting angrier - and more defensive - every second. "I'm not part of your pack, I'm not even a werewolf, and you don't tell me anything. Two, what makes you think I'm just going to brush it off? What the _hell_ makes you think that I ever brush anything off?"

Derek mirrors him, and, powerful arms crossed, Stiles has to admit - privately - that he does a better job with the angry stance. Through clenched teeth, Derek says, "Because you always do! The night Peter hurt Lydia and was considering killing you, when Matt showed up at the police station with Jackson, you totally just... breezed past that! Like you didn't care that so, so easily, you could have died! And at least those two weren't necessarily your fault, but you can't just go wandering into danger, Stiles! What if you had died? What about your dad?"

The comments are so completely off, and yet so completely _on,_ that it feels like he's had the breath knocked out of him. He cares. Of course he cares. Derek is wrong about that. But... he's right, too. _What_ would _have happened if I died? Scott... he's been better since the motel, but if he thought that it was his fault... And what about Lydia and Allison? And..._ His dad is almost too painful to consider. Stiles knows that he's been the sheriff's crutch since his wife died, the only crutch he's ever needed, and if that was taken away...

The Alpha seems to take his breathless silence as a kind of mutinous defense. Deep enough to be a snarl, he thunders, "You're so stubborn! Stiles, you're smart - too smart, most of the time - but that only helps sometimes! You have to know that the -"

"I care." Stated flatly, it almost seems like an antonym, but it isn't. When it seems like Derek is about to plow through the sentence, to keep on berating him, Stiles stiffens and says, more fiercely, "I do care! When Lydia nearly died, I spent three days in the hospital, just waiting - waiting - for the news." He can still feel the sour terror when he looks at her sometimes, the horrible certainty he had had that his vigil was going to end in a tragedy, just like it had with -

"When Matt went mental, do you think I treated it like a joke? Do you think I just 'breezed past' the fact that he could have killed my dad as easily as someone swatting a fly? I didn't sleep more than two hours at a time for weeks after that; I had nightmares for even longer." He still has nightmares, sometimes, where he's paralyzed and people are hanging from a cliff, and if he could just reach out, he could grab Scott's hand, or Lydia's or his dad's or... or his mom, or sometimes even Derek's. And he never does reach out, never saves them as they fall, and he wakes up drenched in either sweat or tears, and he can never tell which it is.

There's pressure prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he blinks angrily, appalled. He's not about to cry in front of _Derek_ of all people. For the werewolf's part, he doesn't seem to know how to react. From the side of his vision - Stiles can't look at him straight on - he sees that Derek is awkwardly twisting his hands together, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet.

With more than a little black humor, Stiles thinks, _Well, at least that got him to shut up._ Pulling in a deep breath, biting his lip, the human drops the sheet he's still got clutched ridiculously to his chest - the movement hurts his side - and turns to stare at Derek's chest.

"I care," he repeats, a little unsteadily. "I just... I cared so much about my mom, and she still died. Derek, caring didn't help. And I used to wish - I still do, sometimes - that I could just _stop_ feeling. It hurts too much. But I know - I know that I can't. So I push it away, and I have my nightmares, and I deal with it."

And that's the reason he was reckless at the club. He's... he's tired of the nightmares. Of being paralyzed. But it looks like the antidote isn't strong enough, and the nightmare won't end. Stiles' dreams were right. He's weak, powerless to help his friends. He's definitely no hero.

A rough hand brushes against his bruised side and he gasps, more from surprise than pain. The touch brings him from his immersion in self-contempt and Stiles shivers, the result of his pent up stress and emotion flooding through his low toned confession. It's an automatic urge to pull away, but for once, the human resists what is automatic. Derek's fingers aren't gentle, but they are secure and comforting, and as he presses them against the injury, leaning over the bed to reach it, Stiles finds that his pain is leeching away.

Unable to stop the soft moan of relief, Stiles catches the Alpha's hand, pulls it away. "Don't," he says raggedly, still holding his hand. Clutching at it like a lifeline, he, for the first that day, meets Derek's eyes. There's no hint of red in them. Almost no hint of any colour, unless the pale suggestion of grey-green counts. At the moment, they're framed by furrowed eyebrows, confusion evident in the way he opens his mouth, closes it again, uncertain.

Stiles fills the silence. "I - it was my fault. You're right about that. I was stupid. Should have known better. I know - Scott told me - that taking away pain hurts you as well. You don't deserve that."

"And you do?"

"I -"

The werewolf doesn't let him finish. His eyes darken, and for a second there's a trace of crimson, building and gone. Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles', holding so tightly it's close to hurting but not quite. "Stiles," he growls, "no. You don't deserve to be in pain because of a dumb mistake."

His skin is warm and calming against Stiles' skin, and the human lets himself smile faintly. _Obviously,_ he thinks distantly, _Derek's conveniently forgetting about the numerous times he's smacked me just for that._ And the thought is genuinely funny, but the mood is too somber, too laden with emotion, to break by voicing it. His smile fades away, and he finds himself really searching Derek's eyes, discomfort forgotten, looking for a clue, a hint that his words are truth and nothing more or less than that.

Taking his silence for consent, Derek gently disengages their hands and brings his back to Stiles' bruised ribs. Again, the lingering ache is drawn away, and the human doesn't protest this time. Abruptly feeling awkward, he drops his gaze and finds it tracing the muscular pathway of Derek's forearm instead, which is even worse. Faint red stains his cheeks, and he knows that his heart has picked up its rhythm, but can't do anything about it.

Hoping to distract himself, and the werewolf's super senses, he says quietly, "Thanks. I'm sorry for all of this. I won't... next time, I'll let you guys handle it." He almost means it, too.

Derek draws his fingers away, and even though the hurt has been reduced to a minor throb, Stiles wants to protest. He licks his lips and looks down, knowing he's got no right to ask for more support, especially not from the other man, who's got more than enough to deal with. Needing to do something with his hands, he starts toying with the blanket crumpled in his lap. A second later, Derek's hand catches his chin, firmly lifts it. He's frowning.

"Stiles," he says, and his voice is incredulous, "you don't need to 'let us handle it'. That isn't what I meant at all." For his part, Stiles is made speechless by the close contact and the words both. He can feel his pulse humming under Derek's strong grip, and wonders hazily how a dressing down has turned to this. Definitely not oblivious, but choosing to overlook Stiles' reaction, Derek continues.

"How many times have you saved us? Too many to count. I'm not - we're not - angry that you tried to handle it. I'm mad you tried it _alone._ Being in a pack means that you never walk alone. That's the whole point. And we _are_ a pack, all of us in this messed up town, even if I'm not your Alpha. So the next time you see a girl that gives you weird vibes, call one of us, and we'll handle it together. You can make up the brilliant plan, and we'll do our best to screw it up. Deal?"

He's so close, the bed supporting most of his weight, and his face is only a few inches from Stiles. Stiles tries to control himself, he really does, but the situation is going too fast and it's either this or ruining his relationship with Derek. Letting a soft grin travel across his face, Stiles mutters, "Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."

The quote flies over Derek's head and into space, and the Alpha leans back, face crinkling. "What?"

"It's from Lilo and Stitch!" Stiles explains brightly, trying not to feel a pang as the confused man moves even further away. He wants this so badly, but... not like this. He doesn't even _know_ Derek, not enough. _Time,_ he tells his longing firmly, and straightens up, his smile growing at the uncertain impatience Derek is exhibiting. Reaching out, catching his hand, Stiles gives it a good squeeze and then lets go.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Derek steps forward aggressively. "You're not supposed to be doing anything," he says sharply, though the pointed tone is softened by concern and thoughtfulness.

Stiles raises his eyebrow. "I think I already broke that rule," he drawls sardonically, meaningfully looking the other male up and down. It's Derek's turn to flush, and he steps back. Claiming the space with a smug smile, Stiles staggers to his feet and accepts the offered hand to support himself. Rolling out his shoulders, trying in vain to rid himself of the fatigue that's saturated his muscles, eventually he shrugs. It's not like what he plans is going to take a ton of energy, anyways. He takes a few purposeful steps to the doorway.

Derek hurries behind him, absurdly fussing like a mother hen. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Going to the kitchen," Stiles replies easily. "And then _you're_ going to make me some pancakes. Don't lie; Isaac told me you make amazing pancakes. It's the least you can do for yelling at me."

His smile is truly elated when Derek halts as if he's just run into something, struck speechless. As Stiles nears the staircase, he calls over his shoulder, "Once they're done, you and I are going to be watching a movie about a strange girl and her alien dog."

Behind him, Derek's voice is a weak protest. "Why?"

"Because you've never seen it." He makes it to the bottom of the stairs without incident and then pauses, glancing up. Derek lingers at the top, looking like he's caught between running away screaming or caving in. Brightening his grin a few notches, Stiles says coaxingly, "Aw, come on Derek. We'll make a sweetwolf out of you yet."

And when Derek laughs, grudgingly or not, Stiles' heart lifts, and he tells himself that anyone who can bring a smile to the Alpha's face is a true hero. 


End file.
